KC kissed her wedding ring. “Ditto. I’m just impressed that you’re making such an effort to meet someone. It sounds exhausting.”

“Tell me about it. I swear it takes as much strategic planning as preparing for a trial – and is usually more mentally draining. I can’t believe I’m back to the games, the balance between flirting and pretending not to care, the not knowing how long to wait before responding to a text, or what to say in a text, or wondering what he means in his text, or wondering if you’re reading too much into his texts, or wondering if you blew it because of a text, or if he even read your text. It’s enough to drive you crazy!

Then, on top of all that insanity, once you decide that you like a guy, there’s the not knowing when to sleep with him for the first time, wondering if he’ll lose interest if you do it too soon, or if he’ll lose interest if you wait too long. And then if you do decide to sleep with him, there’s the whole ‘Will I regret it?’ or ‘Will it be any good?’ And then what if the sex isn’t good? Do you give it another chance? Or do you cut and run? And if it wasn’t good for you, does that mean it wasn’t good for him either? It’s enough to drive any sane woman over the edge. Your Honor, I rest my case.”

…

‘BRIDGES‘ – ThePremise

It’s a piece of news Daphne never expected to hear: Her globe-trotting friend Skylar, who vowed never to get married, is engaged! Time to celebrate in Manhattan—Skylar’s treat, of course. After years scaling the corporate ladder, she can more than afford it.

Daphne arrives in NYC with news of her own—the novel she’s finally finished appears to be going nowhere but the trash bin of every publishing house around. She’s devastated but plans to keep her disappointment under wraps, something that becomes trickier when she sees Skylar’s spectacular apartment. Could her life have been like this if she’d chosen a different path?

What Daphne doesn’t know is she’s not the only one with a secret. Skylar and their friend KC are also holding something back, but what? As the trip unfolds, the truth about each woman emerges, along with tears.

Clark’s going through a messy divorce, and wants to rebrand himself in the public eye.

But halfway through her interview, Clark’s teenage daughter is found floating facedown in his infinity pool.

And then his young girlfriend accuses him of abuse.

As Clark’s world darkens, Jessica is drawn to help him.

This is the man she’s always dreamed of being close to.

And now he needs her.

He can’t be the monster they say he is… can he?

…

EMMADIBDIN

About the author

Emma is a lifelong writer and pop culture nerd, and admits to feeling endlessly grateful for having a job as a journalist which combines both, with her work having appeared in Esquire, Marie Claire, Harper’s Bazaar, Cosmopolitan, Total Film, and Indiewire.

Since moving to New York from London two years ago, she has spent a lot of time brewing coffee, writing fiction, and covering the ever-broadening selection of Peak TV – all while fighting a one-woman war against the culinary tyranny of cilantro.

Coriander is my nemesis. It is the devil’s herb, and the slow, sinister proliferation of it in British sandwich shops is deeply upsetting to me.

As my contribution to this extensive Blog Tour, ‘Head Of Zeus’ and Emma Dibdin, have requested that I share this extract from ‘Through His Eyes’ …

Loner centred on a seemingly amoral, ambitious lawyer who moonlighted as a do-gooder vigilante. It was essentially a superhero show before they were in vogue, though the network would never dream of selling it as that. Loner was ‘a lawyer with a dark secret’, defending scumbag suits by day and saving lives by night, aided by his otherworldly ability to sense death around him. He could sense if someone was about to be hit by a car, or killed by a mugger, or burned alive in a fire, and wherever possible he would intervene, save them, always in disguise to avoid any link between his two lives.

Of course, there was a tragic backstory driving him to do all this saving, a horrifying childhood trauma that left him an orphan, and my favourite episodes were always those that delved most deeply into the angst of his past. There’s something comforting about a hero who has endured unthinkable pain and survived in spite of it.

Loner is probably no longer the role that most people know Clark Conrad for; he’s been a bona fide movie star for more than a decade, one of the few actors whose name alone can still get a film financed. But to me this will always be who he is. Loner by name, loner by nature, and yes, of course this tagline is absurd, almost as absurd as the fact that the character’s literal name was Richard Loner. The kind of thing TV could just barely get away with in the nineties. People talk about this show now with affectionate scorn, as a corny oddity, but there’s a reason its fans have stayed so engaged and are still clamouring for a reboot. The thing is there’s nothing insincere about Loner, and after a few moments of watching Clark’s performance you forget the silliness of its concept.

Netflix reminds me that I’m midway through an episode – season three, episode twenty, the episode I’ve re-watched enough times that I can probably recite it – but I opt to begin the entire show again from the beginning. I watch his face, the face that has been an endless comfort to me through so much, listen to the voice that has been a mainstay when everything else in my life is collapsing, and think about what’s to come. What I’m going to ask this man. How I can possibly communicate, in the space of twenty minutes, what he has meant to me, how he came to represent for me the idea of what a good man looked like. Most people get over their teenage crushes, but he is my exception.

Not that I’m there to communicate any of this to him. I’m there to ask him the kinds of questions that will prompt newsworthy answers, because I am not a fan, or rather I am no longer just a fan. I’m a reporter.

I know I should be taking notes because there are ideas coming to me, questions, angles, but I’m too tired to hold my head up. I’m out cold before the sun has even gone down, the words of the show circling my mind as I’m drifting off, Loner’s dry one-liners following me into my dreams. This is not the first time he has lulled me to sleep.

‘Angela! Angela! Turn this way!’

‘Towards me, Angela!’

‘Angela, what happened with Jason? Are you guys getting back together?’

‘Angela! To the left! Angela!’

‘WE LOVE YOU, ANGELA!’

‘Hey, Angela, five minutes for Us Weekly? Angela!’

‘Angela, what’s your perfect breakfast?’

‘ANGELA! ANGELA! ANGELA!’

‘Angela, right over here! Over your shoulder!’

There are few things more soul-destroying to me than a red carpet. Angela Jackson, a twenty-something TV actress currently in the tabloids for breaking up with her co-star, is posing for pictures as photographers, reporters and fans vie for her attention, their demands overlapping each other until it’s all a meaningless din. But she’s a pro, she keeps smiling and posing and turning even as the photographers shout conflicting instructions at her, begging her to grace their lens with one perfectly sellable angle.

My editor specifically wants me to get a quote from Angela but I have too much dignity, or fear, to scream at the top of my lungs to try to attract her attention, and in any case it’s pointless. I suspect the reporters who do this are just trying to feel less useless, because if the star’s publicist doesn’t want them to speak to you, they will not speak to you. I flag down the only publicist I know here as she barrels by, a phone in either hand and a clipboard under her arm, and thankfully her face lights up in recognition.

‘Jessica, hey, do you want to speak to Logan?’

And within a few minutes he is there in front of me, the baby-faced supporting actor with a rabid teenage fanbase, and I’m trying desperately to get him to say anything interesting about this film we both know is bad. I ask him softball questions, the fundamentals in any PR training exercise (what drew you to the role? Who’s your biggest career inspiration?) and watch him with a sinking heart.

‘Yeah, you know, it’s just a really exciting project to be a part of, and obviously Bryan is such a legendary director, it was a no-brainer for me.’

‘What was the most challenging aspect of the role for you?’

He furrows his brow, evidently not having prepared an answer even for this.

‘You know, I guess it was all challenging, in terms of the work, but I had such a great team around me that it was just a real honour to be there every day.’

With thanks to the lovely folks at Aria Fiction and NetGalley, for the opportunity to be in right at the beginning of this Blog Tour for The Pupil by Dawn Goodwin.

If you enjoy reading this extract, why not visit some of the other tour participants over the coming few days, I’m sure they would be pleased to welcome you!

…

‘THEPUPIL‘

One moment of carelessness. Four shattered lives.

Psychological suspense that explores a labyrinth of lies, manipulation and revenge. Perfect for fans of Louise Jenson and Katerina Diamond.

Literary agent Viola Matthews is sure she’s met Katherine Baxter before. So when her husband and bestselling novelist Samuel Morton introduces Viola to the quiet, unassuming woman he has offered to mentor, she knows their paths have crossed before. The question is where?

As their worlds collide and the bond between Samuel and Katherine deepens, Viola realises she must take control.

If Viola is right, then Katherine needs to pay for something that happened twelve years ago.

…

DAWNGOODWIN

Dawn Goodwin’s twenty-year career has spanned PR, advertising and publishing, both in London and Johannesburg.

A graduate of the Curtis Brown creative writing school, she loves to write about the personalities hiding behind the masks we wear every day, whether beautiful or ugly.

Now a company director, what spare time Dawn has is spent chasing good intentions, contemplating how to get away with various crimes and misdemeanours, and immersing herself in fictitious worlds.

She lives in London with her husband, two daughters and a British bulldog called Geoffrey.

The best thing about being a writer is the ability to live vicariously through your own imagination, with no boundaries as to how you behave on paper. And having a good excuse to read as many books as you like in the name of “research”.

One of the most enjoyable parts of being a writer is being able to take the darker side of human nature and explore it to the full, allowing myself to inhabit the mind of a villain and take the driving seat. I certainly wouldn’t think to behave in public the way some of my antagonists do, but it can be fun to imagine what it would be like

To co-start the Blog Tour, Aria Fiction and Dawn Goodwin, have requested that I share this extract with you.

The words are taken from the beginning of Chapter 2

Situated as it was near to Soho, there were already a number of suits spilling out of the bar and into the street, enjoying their first cigarette post-work. Late September leaves swirled about their feet, waltzing with cigarette butts and empty crisp packets.

A long, polished bar dominated the room, illuminated by the rows of multicoloured bottles standing to attention behind the bar staff. Artisan gins and trendy rum brands stood shoulder to shoulder with cheaper spirits in eye-watering hues. The air was heady with a bouquet of aftershave, alcohol and naked ambition, making me almost nostalgic for the days of my youth when bars up north would reek of cigarette smoke, beer and regret.

The writing group congregated around a few tables to the side of the room. I hovered on the periphery, holding my coat in front of me like a shield. The group looked at each other for a moment, no one wanting to be the first to offer to get a round in, not for so many of them in one go. Eventually, The Gnome couldn’t hold out any longer, the pull of the pint proving too much for him to bear.

‘What’s your poison, everyone? I’ll get the first one in.’

Relieved mutterings of ‘make it a pint for me’ and ‘a small white wine please’ filled the air. Conscious of the rumbling of my tummy after a day of little food and too much free coffee, I asked for a gin and tonic, then positioned myself next to Shelley – close enough to follow the conversation, but peripheral enough not to have to engage too thickly. I generally wasn’t one for small talk; I was never sure what adults talked about if not their kids.

I scanned the faces for Samuel. He was standing further away to my left, his back to me, deep in conversation with a man whose name I couldn’t recall. I tried to make out what they were talking about, but their voices were indistinct in the pub clamour.

‘Did you enjoy it? The course I mean?’ Shelley leaned in and whispered at my side. ‘I’m Shelley Low, by the way. We haven’t really been introduced properly.’ She was holding out a pudgy hand to me. I shook it firmly. Her grasp was limp.

‘Katherine Baxter.’ I smiled. ‘I did enjoy it. I’ve come away with a lot of great ideas, although I wish it could’ve been longer. I was essentially looking for validation that I can actually write more than anything else. I didn’t necessarily get that though. We spent so much time talking about everyone else’s work and perhaps we could’ve had more time working on our own stuff, you know? Maybe some more one-on-one time with Samuel?’

‘True.’ Shelley looked like she was dithering over whether to say the words forming behind her lips, then she ploughed in. ‘Please don’t take everyone’s criticism of your work to heart.’ She flushed. ‘I could tell by your face that you were hoping to hear something different.’ She shuffled her feet and avoided looking me in the eye.

‘Was it that obvious?’

Shelley smiled, just as The Gnome began to dish out the drinks. ‘I personally think your novel is really promising and we have to remember that there is an element of competition here.’ She looked at the others standing around us. ‘They’re all looking at each of us and seeing the books that may get published before theirs, so it’s self-preservation to tear others down before building theirs up.’

I felt myself exhale. ‘You know, you’re right, Shelley. We pour ourselves into the words on the page and to hear that the reader is left feeling complacent at best is disheartening. But I agree – they can say what they want because they won’t be the ones offering me a publishing deal.’ I looked pointedly at where Samuel was now holding court over the main group. He looked over and caught my eye. My cheeks warmed. I nodded my head subtly in his direction. ‘That’s who we should be impressing.’

Shelley followed my eyeline. ‘Yes, he’s lovely, isn’t he?’ she said. I watched him as he chatted, the way he used his slim hands for emphasis. ‘You know, they say his wife is quite a force to be reckoned with too,’ Shelley added, then took a sip of her drink.

I dragged my eyes back to her. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, she was the one who got him published in the first place apparently.’ Her voice was little above a conspiratorial whisper and I had to lean in closer to catch the syllables. ‘Viola Matthews?’ The name meant nothing to me. ‘Apparently, she supported him financially while he locked himself away writing failure after failure. He fell into the bottle and she propped him up, by all accounts, because she recognised a latent talent. Then he wrote Muses and Starlings, thought it was rubbish and threw the whole thing away in a drunken rage. She salvaged it, sent it to a publisher friend and the rest is history.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Of course he’d be married. But I never would’ve had him down as having struggled. He exuded such confidence when he spoke about his work. My glass was almost empty already and I could feel the gin fizzing in my veins.

Shelley pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘I did some background reading on him before the course and came across an interview he did years ago with the New York Times just after his third novel was published. Have you read any of his books?’

‘I’ve read Muses and Starlings, a long time ago now.’

‘I’ve read them all. He’s very good at the thinking man’s thriller, I guess you could call it. He writes with such lyricism and clarity when it comes to character definition. He won the lifetime achievement award at the National Book Awards recently, you know. They don’t give those out to just anyone.’

I narrowed my eyes at her wistful tone. ‘Ooh, Shelley, anyone would think you have a crush on our esteemed tutor,’ I teased.

She giggled lightly. ‘Well, I was rather star-struck when I met him on Monday.’ Her cheeks flushed to a deep beetroot shade. ‘He has a way about him, doesn’t he?’ She was gazing at him now. ‘Of course, it’s been a while since he published anything new. Rumour has it he’s close to finishing his next bestseller.’

I slurped at the last of my drink and looked at Shelley more closely. ‘So what about you? Are you married? Kids?’ I asked.

‘No, just me and my cat. I’m a spinster stereotype. You?’

‘Married, two kids: Lily and Jack. Writing is just a hobby for me.’

‘So, what do you do – I mean, for work?’

I was saved from answering by Samuel approaching us.

‘Ladies.’ He angled between us and I was amused to hear Shelley giggle again.

‘Samuel,’ I replied with a subtle smile.

‘Please, we’re all friends now – call me Sam, much less formal. So, what are your thoughts on the course? Worthwhile? Did you get what you wanted from it?’

Did I imagine his eyes tracking down my visage? I pulled at the open neck of my cardigan.

‘Shelley and I were just discussing that.’ I tried to project a more professional intonation onto my words.

‘Yes, we were.’ Shelley jockeyed herself in front of me and into his direct eyeline. I was amused at her sudden forthrightness. ‘I thought it was very worthwhile and certainly useful going forward.’

I stepped forward so that I was back in contention, the two of us like chess pieces manoeuvring around the king. ‘To be honest, I thought there could’ve been a bit more time spent on our own work – perhaps more one-to-one time?’

‘Well, I’m sure if there is more you wanted me to help you with, then we could arrange to meet outside of the course if it will help?’ he said to me.

Sam tore his eyes away from me to flick a glance at her. ‘Oh, yes, you too Shelley.’

The insipid man whose name I’d forgotten earlier but I now remembered was Greg, interrupted us then. He offered another round and Sam moved away with him to help with the order.

I felt my phone vibrate in my back pocket and I excused myself from Shelley to move aside. A text from Paul asking where I was. I kicked myself for not phoning him earlier, but I had been focused on asking Helen to watch the kids first and foremost.

I texted him back to explain that the kids were sleeping over at Helen’s and that I would be home by around 10 p.m., then shoved my phone back in my pocket. I could deal with the fallout tomorrow.

First Lines

Camie’s new word for the week of October 7, 1990, was emporium. As usual she had written it down on her calendar and used it in a sentence: “At the D-Vegas my favorite emporium is the Golden Globe.” Why her favorite? First off, the name itself was a reminder of her mom always saying it […]

Random Quote

Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.

— James Joyce – Irish Novelist, Short Story Writer and Poet – (1882-1941)